Writing
by thatswhyyyoudont
Summary: How Mello came to write Another Note: the Los Angeles BB murders.
Lately, Mello cannot stop writing. It has always been part of him, has always come in stops and starts, but now, with L's death, it seizes hold of him every morning when he wakes up, and doesn't wane when he tries to sleep, leaves him thrashing in bed with the weight of everything in his head. When he is too tired, he writes in his head, over and over, from start to finish, amending, elaborating, hoping it will all still be there, in that order, in the morning.

His grades for all his other activities at Wammy's house are slipping. He tries not to think about it. He knows he can use L's death as an excuse for his behaviour as soon as he needs to, although he doesn't feel good about this. He just feels he needs to write, the way a druggie will need his fix. His muscles are stiff from lying stationary every day, even though he changes position as much as he can. He cannot stop long enough to go for a walk. He even rushes his showers.

He only eats chocolate, as he can eat it as he writes, and he keeps writing in his head while he walks to the kitchen cupboard and back. When it's sunny, he sits outside for fresh air and vitamin D. When it's cold, he sits against the radiator or in front of the fire. And he writes.

Mello normally types up about a third of what he writes. He then tears up what types. It is saved into a specially designed hard drive Matt showed him how to use. He keeps the old notebooks, the fragments, but most of his first drafts don't go far. They are just stabilisers, his baby steps. Even what he finishes, what he keeps, it is never as good as it is in his head. Sometimes, even when he knows it is the best it can possibly be, Mello is faintly disgusted at what he has in him. That's why he tears so much of it up.

"All that paper, Mello," Roger complains, when he is standing over the kitchen bin and shedding his latest work into itty bitty pieces. "Can't you just use your computer?"

But he can't, because computers mean work and editing and researching and tweaking. Writing is raw. It is bad enough that he has to do more than simply close his eyes and watch.

He never lets anyone read what he writes. He publishes online, occasionally, but to the wrong places and doesn't get many readers. He can never be bothered looking at magazines or competitions or anything that may actually get him somewhere.

It is only for himself that he does it. He feels empty afterwards, disturbingly so, like he has performed surgery on himself, or like he is bulimic. He worries sometimes that he shouldn't keep writing, because what if one day he will be empty and there will be nothing left?

He wishes he doesn't need money or status or love, because if he didn't, he could just write and eat chocolate until he died. Occasionally it would hurt, he knew. Occasionally he would be forced to open his eyes and look up. But who knows, after a while, he might even drag something half decent out of his brain. Something people would like and, more importantly, understand.

He doesn't tell Roger any of this. He knows how much has been invested in him. With A, B and now L being dead, they had a lot to make up for.

It is Near, of all people, who asks him what he writes about. Mello has had people ask him before, of course, but not since he started lying and telling them he was working on a project. A case. Something L left him. A future job. Anything. It is Near who infuriatingly sees through this and asks him what he's really writing about. If anyone else suspects, they have been polite enough not to say.

"Mello is writing a lot."

Near is lying on his stomach across the room, building a tower of blocks, the kind two year olds played with in GP waiting rooms. He has to strain slightly to reach the top, but he doesn't sit up.

Mello is at too safe a distance away for kicking, on the leather couch. _Near is a cunt,_ he thinks, but is too distracted to bother saying it. Perhaps he will throw something, later. A cushion, a boot.

They're in the smaller den, the one where no-one goes, because the TV doesn't work and the games aren't as good. Near comes here quite a lot, for the space to play. Mello comes for the quiet to write, though usually not at the same time. But, he is beginning to be more flexible. After all, Near normally just lies there and ignores him. Until today.

It is getting late. The urge to write is waning, as it does. Sleep usually brought it back, and it would wake up with him, ravenous. Mello wishes he could write as fast, and as colourfully, as he could think.

Mello is just starting to ignore Near again when he asks, "What do you write about?"

Near has never taken an interest in anything he does before. Mello considers lying, even though he knows there is no point. Instead he settles for the next best thing and evades.

"Whatever I feel like."

Near just looks at him from under his white hair. Mello thinks, not for the first time, creepy looking Near is, with his dark, dark eyes and oversized clothes, like a demon dressed as an angel.

"I don't write about anything," Mello says irritably, when Near keeps looking at him. "I don't write about wars or gender or post-modernism. I just see things in my head and I write them down. It's mostly just violence and sex."

And missing people, he adds silently. Really, he is just saying the same thing over and over again. Why would anyone want to read that?

Near's expression hasn't changed. "Do you ever show Matt?"

"No," he says shortly. "It's not his thing. He found something once, though, by accident. I didn't speak to him for weeks. That was when he got me that hard drive."

"What about L?"

"No." But he wishes he could show L, now more than ever.

"Is that why you tear them up?" Near asks, oblivious. "So people won't find them and read them?"

"Yes," he says.

"Why?"

"They're not good enough."

A pause. "So would you like to be a writer instead of a detective?"

"I'd like to be a writer that never shows anyone what he writes. Starving artist."

"I don't think you'd be very good at starving." Near eyes the chocolate wrappers littering the couch pointedly.

Then Near moves, just slightly, and the tower collapses on him, and Mello laughs and laughs, though it is false sounding even to his own ears. He has never seen one of Near's towers collapse before, unless it has been at the end of his foot.

"Bad day?" Mello asks, when he has recovered, and Near pushes the blocks off himself.

He shrugs. "I guess." He rests his head on the blocks forlornly. He continues as if there hasn't been any break in their conversation. "Can I read some of it one day?"

"No. You wouldn't understand," Mello sneers, and curls his knees up, L like. The leather of the couch is splitting from the pressure of his toes.

"Why?"

"Because," he says. "You're a techy numbers data person. You wouldn't get art. You'd scorn it. You all do."

"L was a techy person," Near counters.

"L was abstract, too," Mello says. "That's why I got on with him so well. He- " He finds he has to stop and close his eyes for a moment. Near thankfully doesn't attempt to do anything ridiculous, like comfort him. "He was something else," he finishes eventually, lamely.

Near is looking at the last piece of his tower he didn't manage to finish, turning it over and over in his hands. "You understand numbers and data and technology and patterns," he says now. "Even though you're a words person, you can understand that, too. So maybe I could understand."

Mello sighs. He doesn't know why he's having this conversation. "Why do you want to understand?"

Near shrugs. He holds the last piece up to the tower and examines it thoughtfully, as if he can still place it. "It's interesting," he says finally. "Seeing inside people's heads. It's usually more interesting than what they say."

"People get it wrong."

"People always get it wrong," Near agrees. "But, people will be thinking about themselves, not about you. That's how art works, isn't it?" He doesn't look up to see if Mello agrees. "Is that why you won't show anyone? Because it's so personal?"

"And emotional," Mello says, and wants to kick himself. Why was he going along with this?

Near ignores him. "Do you care about my opinion, Mello?"

Mello looks at him warily.

"Why would you care if I got it wrong, if I read something and interpreted it as you being lonely, or a bad person, or whatever it is you're afraid of? I don't think you'd care if I made fun of you, but I wouldn't, if that's what it is."

Mello doesn't answer.

Near lifts his head slightly. "Or, are you scared I'll get it right?" He looks interested, but not maliciously so.

"I'm never going to show you anything," Mello tells him. "Because of course you'll get it right. And even if you don't say a word, you'll know, and that's what I can't stand. I can't stand people knowing."

Near goes quiet for a moment. "Why don't you write what you want people to know about?" he suggests quietly. "Write about L."

Mello is always writing about L, no matter what comes out, but he doesn't say this. He is beginning to get an idea. He can't write anything he can show L, but he can write for L, for the world. He can write what L told him, starting with…

"Beyond Birthday," he whispers.

"Who?" Near is frowning.

Of course, Near doesn't know who Beyond Birthday is. He doesn't know anything. Mello gets up for more paper, knowing his current notebook won't be enough. He joints crick as he moves. He suddenly feels better. No, not better. He feels he is waking up.

"I'll write you something, Near," he promises. He'll write something he can show everyone. Beyond Birthday isn't much, isn't enough, but it's a start.


End file.
